


aftermath

by wakandawinterprincess



Category: Black Panther (2018)
Genre: AU, Aged-Up Character(s), Character Death, Deviation From Canon, F/M, Implied/Referenced Character Death, NSFW at the end so please, Shuri is NEVER a teen in my works, and never will be so don't bother, the premise here was challenging and conflicting so I hope I did it some good, use your own judgement okay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-08
Updated: 2018-04-08
Packaged: 2019-04-20 02:22:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14251002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wakandawinterprincess/pseuds/wakandawinterprincess
Summary: Around 10 years post-IW. The sudden death of T'Challa seemingly throws the world into disarray. In the midst of it all, Bucky returns to Wakanda to show his support for Shuri, who's fighting for both the mantle of Black Panther and the throne. But the aftermath of T'Challa's passing comes with its own burdens and costs, and a secret Bucky has been carrying for far too long reveals itself.





	aftermath

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Shuri is 26~28 years old in this. (Yep, a HUGE jump!) Bucky is, by extension, maybe 42-44? IDK. I’d like to think the super-soldier serum has slowed down his aging to a point where he still looks 35 ish no matter how old he gets. Which it probably has.
> 
> If the pairing makes you uncomfortable, stop reading NOW. Seriously. There is some NSFW content towards the end of this work. This is a fair warning.

 

Bucky is abroad on a mission when he hears the news.

The message is simple. Right to the point.

_The king is dead._

Just like that. 

The man who saved him, who’d become his brother in blood, who’d treated him like one of his own -- he was gone.

 

For the first time since Steve’s death, Bucky is truly, utterly _devastated_.

 

He can’t think. He can’t breathe. He’s at a loss for what, _exactly_ , he should do.

Then he receives another update. From the person who will ascend the throne. The person who will become the next Black Panther. 

It’s her. _Shuri_.

The message is simple. Right to the point.

_Come back._

He boards a flight to Wakanda within the hour.

* * *

 

It’s been over two years since he’d last stepped within the nation’s borders.

 He never imagined he’d come back under such circumstances.

The whole country, so usually bright and beautiful and _proud_ , looks somber and brittle and gray.

It’s almost as if it died along with its monarch.

As if it’s been enveloped by a dark mist of depression, so deep and thick and burdensome it seems more fit to accept it than to escape it.

He understands complacency. He understands what it’s like, to feel so weighed down by one’s own burdens that submission seems more humane than fighting back.

But mostly, he’s taken aback by the fragility of life. How someone can be here one day and gone the next. The universe is not just, simply relentless.

He grieves for this country, and the king it has lost.

* * *

 

Shuri meets him on the tarmac.

She looks sad and unspeakably beautiful. She manages both in the way only she can.

As she approaches him, he can make out the details of her face like he’d memorized them a thousand times over in his dreams -- her jaw set stubbornly, her dark eyes glittering with unshed tears.

She’s putting on a brave face. But he can see the cracks in her facade.

She’s so strong, he muses. Strong, brilliant, beautiful, a million words that sound boring and meaningless until she’s near him and he suddenly finds himself wanting to use them all.

Shuri manages to give him a tender, crooked smile, and croaks out in what is so soft it’s nearly a whisper --

_"Bucky. You’re back."_

_"Shuri_ ," he echoes, dumbly.

He should offer her some consolation. A comforting platitude. _Something_.

But he can’t think of what to say. His condolences sound so shallow, so _meaningless_ , in face of what has happened. Of who they’ve lost.

She meets his eyes and it’s like she _knows_. She gives him an understanding nod.

“T’Challa _, he…_ ” -- her voice breaks, the rest of her sentence comes out in a choke -- “... he _died_ protecting me!”

It’s like the floodgates have opened, and suddenly her facade is crashing down in front of them both.

She lurches forward and all but _crumples_ into his arms.

He’s in shock but nevertheless holds her up fiercely, determined not to let her fall, not to let her knees touch the ground. No matter what, she must _stand up_.

Because while she may be a grieving sister, she is also a _queen_.

It is beneath her to collapse in sorrow. He won’t let her be tarnished that way.

It is, he figures, what her brother would have wanted him to do.

* * *

 

He ends up in her room, holding her for hours.

She can’t sleep. Neither can he. 

The numbness runs too deep.

Talking about T’Challa’s death is still too raw. Too soon.

They talk for hours, instead, about the changes in the world.

She tells him all about her latest inventions and gadgets. Her work with the inner-city youth in California. The responsibilities of royalty, the duties of diplomacy.

He swallows down the twinge of jealousy, of _possessiveness_ , when she speaks casually of the many suitors who’d tried to win her hand.

She was never his to begin with. What good does jealousy do him?

But he loves her. Just enough that it hurts anyways.

He wonders, absently, why the Dora Milaje haven’t kicked him out of her quarters. He suspects they’ve suspended usual protocol in favor of giving the princess her space. 

(He also knows the Dora would have his head in at least six different creative ways if he tried anything with their princess.)

He’s grateful for their lenience, regardless. He doesn’t know what he’d be doing without Shuri at his side. Her presence alone is helping him heal. He hopes he’s doing the same for her.

They sit in silence for a bit. Shuri breaks the quiet after what feels like a millennium.

 _"I’m not ready to be without him,"_  she whispers to no one.

Bucky understands that feeling more than he could ever articulate. That emptiness he felt after Steve, the last person alive from his old life, the best friend he could have asked for, had died … there were days that he’d felt like the loneliest man alive.

But he _wasn’t_ alone, then or now. And neither is she.

He runs a hand absently through her long, dark locs in what he hopes is a comforting motion.

_"T’Challa’s not gone. Not really."_

She sniffles. He continues, unsure if he’s really helping or just making things worse.

_"He lives on through you, Shuri."_

And he means that. There is no better person to push T’Challa’s legacy forward and build on it further than Shuri. No one better equipped to deal with his death and its aftermath with the requisite grace and intelligence required than her.

She sits in silence, absorbing what he said. Then she reaches out and squeezes his hand gently.

Her way of saying, he’s discovered over the years-- _Thank You_.

He squeezes back gently, glad he got through to her.

 _"Stay for the challenge and the ceremony_ ," she mutters, voice thick with an emotion he can’t place. " _It’s what my brother would have wanted."_

He thinks, _really thinks_ , about what her brother would have wanted.

T’Challa was a reserved man in many ways, but the one thing he could never hide from anyone was how much he adored his little sister.

Indeed, he remembers how T’Challa doted on her. He would do anything for her, no matter the cost.

Which he did, until his very last breath.

And it was that undying loyalty towards Shuri, precisely, that had sealed Bucky’s lips for so many years. 

For T’Challa’s sake, he had kept one secret hidden from him and her both. 

That secret being that, somehow, against his better sense--

He’d fallen slowly, _painfully_ in love with Shuri.

The king’s sister. The last person he should have _ever_ fallen for. 

It had started off innocently enough. He had assumed his protectiveness of her stemmed from the fact that she’d fixed him. That he owed her a debt he could never _truly_ repay.

And then. Over the years, it had become something more, slipped briskly into something far more subtle, far more vulnerable. Inside jokes, hidden glances. A sort of warm, mutual understanding of each other’s strange, _strange_ life experiences.

A willingness, on his part, to do _anything_ for her.

Her energy and radiance was infectious.  Her courage and kindness was unparalleled. Over the years, she’d flowered into nothing less than a _masterpiece_.

He didn’t understand how someone _couldn’t_ be in love with her.

But he hadn’t meant to fall in love with the princess. It wasn’t _right_.

To do so was a betrayal of the king’s confidence and hers. It was not a luxury he could afford.

Not when he owed them both so much. 

Not when she could do so much better than a damaged prisoner of war, a former weapon of mass destruction. A broken man, who had never been completely healed.

And so, his silence was a _choice_. It was his way of making things right. Of ensuring that no one would ever know.

Even now, he’s overcome by how much shame it brings him to hide his feelings for the girl -- no, the _woman_ , he corrects himself -- in his arms.  

 _The ultimate betrayal_. It makes him sick.

He is not of her rank, her race, or frankly, her stature.

He doesn't deserve her in any way, shape, or form.

And yet. He owes her his life. A _miracle_ , a reality he doesn’t remind her of enough.  

Though really, he ought to. 

He shakes himself out of his thoughts and shifts his attention back to her.

 _"You saved my life,"_ he tells her gently. " _Attending your crowning ceremony -- it’s the least I could do. I would be honored to attend."_

 _"Though maybe…"_ he adds on, voice slipping into something more teasing, more light, "…. _Maybe, if you wanted to be EXTRA sure I show up, you could tell the caterers to make me some malva pudding."_

Shuri swats at him playfully at that comment and laughs through her tears, as she always does.

 _"Greedy ass,"_ she jabs. 

 _"Yes, but with good taste_ ," he agrees.

She looks like she might tease him again, but her expression shifts to serious once more.

 _"Thank you,"_ she murmurs.

She leans her head on his shoulder gingerly. He lets her, and tries to ignore how _right_ it feels.

It’s all the intimacy they can afford. All that they need, really. 

Okoye finds them there, asleep at the foot of her bed, at the break of dawn.

* * *

 

The ceremony is a week later.

 The whole thing had been expedited, really, because Wakanda could not go much longer without formally installing its next monarch.

But there is a surprise.

A challenger.

Specifically, one of Shuri’s former disgruntled suitors.

He stands there and gazes at Shuri shamelessly, some mix of sneering pride and hidden desire dancing on his features.

Bucky wants to rip the man in half for that reason alone.

He’s tall, dark, and muscular. The crowd whispers that he’s from the River tribe. Nakia, T’Challa’s widow, looks ablaze with righteous fury. He can see her turn and argue angrily with the priest near her.

But the priest and the council declare that the man can move forward.

Shuri looks through her challenger, unfazed.

She picks up her ceremonial spear, locks eyes with her opponent -- and the fight begins.

* * *

 

Shuri’s lithe, quick.  Even without the herb, she knows her strengths in combat.

She deflects most of his jabs with ease, and gets more than a few quick slashes in -- slicing at his forehead, arms, legs, knees. Non-fatal injuries, yes, but ones that would have definitely slowed down any other opponent.

But the challenger -- he doesn’t slow down. He just seems to get more angry, more vicious, more _cruel_ , with each swipe she takes at him.

Like this fight is personal. Like he’s got something to _prove_.

Finally, he manages to get a serious hit in.

His short spear makes contact with Shuri’s left shoulder, plunges into the unprotected skin.

The crowd gasps in horror.

Shuri drops her spear and grabs the weapon in her shoulder with both hands, struggling to keep it from going in further. Bucky can see the sweat beading on her forehead as she fights for the upper hand.

The challenger moves closer, and suddenly he’s just a breath away from Shuri’s face, one hand still on the spear. A hush falls over the crowd.

Bucky can’t hear it from where he is, but he makes out what her challenger whispers to her. It’s one word.

_Scream._

Shuri grits her teeth. Defiant. Resolute.

She doesn’t scream.

He sighs, almost as if disappointed, and twists the blade further into her skin.

This time, she _howls_ in pain and nearly drops to the ground.

In an instant, Bucky’s seeing red. He feels like his veins are on fire. 

He’s screaming her name like a madman, surely, but he doesn’t care. He wants to kill this man on the spot for even _daring_ to hurt her.

But he cannot interfere. Those are the rules.

 

_Rules be damned._

 

The woman he loves might die in ritual combat, and he has to _watch_.

No. He won’t let it happen.

He steps forward, but like lightning, the Dora near him pick up their spears and hold him back.

He knows they won’t hesitate to kill him. He wonders if that would be so bad.

But Shuri -- _Shuri_ would never forgive him if he interfered.

She would prefer a death of honor over a victory of deceit. 

He knows that, too.

So against all of his better reasoning, he swallows his anger, his fear, and _watches_.

Shuri snaps out of her stunted, pained daze, seemingly having heard him scream her name.

She manages a swift kick to the man’s chest, and he drops down, just long enough for him to loosen his vice-like grip on her. Shuri pulls the spear out of her shoulder, and Bucky can see her convulse in pain at the movement.

Then she’s on her knees, hunting for her own spear in the water, but she’s trembling now, like she knows she’s been cornered. Like she’s done for.

He moves in closer, stalking her like prey. The circle of warriors tighten around them.

Shuri turns around and meets her challenger’s eyes. Her former defiance and rage is gone.

She’s bleeding. She’s tired. She’s about to die.

These are her final moments.

 

And still. Despite it all, she’s so beautiful.

 

He sees a flash of sheer _longing_ on the man’s face, followed by shame and then contempt for the princess collapsed at his feet. So vulnerable. So at his mercy.

 

He raises his arm to deliver the final blow, and then…

 

Shuri lunges at his ankles and knocks him over. He’s so caught by surprise he falls on his back.

In an instant, she’s straddling him, her knees at his throat, his own spear pointed at his head.

It’s clear as day, all of a sudden, what she had done.

She’d tricked him into believing she was at his mercy. That she was hapless. 

It was all a fantasy.

She let him wallow in it, drink it in -- and then _pounced_.

Bucky can see that fierce energy radiating off of her now, that unique strand of defiance, one he’d seen on her brother before her so many times.

 

In that moment, there’s no doubt in his mind -- she _is_ the Black Panther.

 

Shuri leans down towards the challenger, and suddenly she’s just a breath away from his face.

She whispers something to him. Bucky can read it from her lips.

It’s one word.

_Surrender._

He does.

* * *

 

Shuri’s crowning ceremony and banquet is later that same night. He doesn’t see her at all after the fight -- she’s whisked away for medical attention, then fussed over by the palace staff, who’s he’s sure are busy dolling her up in whatever traditional ceremonial outfit they see fit.

His heart hurts, thinking about how _close_ she was to dying. How scared she must have been.

He tells himself that’s the only reason why. 

He grumbles at the palace staff to let him see her, but they politely decline. Instead, they take his measurements and toss him a set of tailored, traditional clothes to wear for the crowning ceremony.

He can’t say he’s surprised. For an event like tonight, his western attire will not do. He’s grateful that, in spite of his complaints, they chose to give him a practical, black suit.

The way he sees it, his foreign presence alone will already set him apart from the crowd. He’s grateful the rest of his getup will be more discreet.

Mostly, though, he needs to see Shuri again. Needs to know that she’s alright.

The hours pass slowly.

But they pass.

* * *

 

 

The party (if one could truly call it that) has actually already been going for about thirty minutes when Shuri finally arrives.

Even though he’s close to the back of the room, Bucky knows she’s arrived because of the hush that falls over the guests.

He pushes forward through the crowd just as she sweeps into the room, and his heart jumps into his throat at the very sight of her.

It’s clear that tonight’s getup was made to honor both Wakanda’s tradition and her own personality, with the two seamlessly interwoven in her outfit.

She’s wearing a thick, tough, corset, with delicate beads, cowrie shells, and traditional details, followed by a long skirt that looks like it’s been made of molten gold. The latter is Shuri’s personal invention, no doubt.

Intricate white and gold henna designs cover her hands, delicately wrapping around her wrists. The patterns look almost as if they’re alive and _moving_.

He’s most stunned, however, by her face.

A golden headdress frames her features -- dark eyes, delicate lips, and velvety skin that shimmers like it’s been flecked with gold.

Looking at her, it’s hard to believe that she’d been engaged in combat a few hours earlier, had been mere moments away from death. 

She looks positively _radiant_ \-- like she’s been reborn. 

In that moment, he feels like an impostor, of sorts.

To see someone so beautiful, witness her in her finest hour.

He doesn’t know how he came to deserve this. To deserve _her_.

Bucky knew she’d look stunning tonight. He didn’t expect her to affect him this way.

They lock eyes almost instantly. He feels as if his traitorous, hammering heart will somehow give himself away. He feels like she will be able to hear it, even from twenty feet away. Even though the thought is absolutely ridiculous. 

He gives her a reassuring smile, hopes she doesn’t notice the way she’s affected him. 

Shuri smiles back at him, and her grin is so genuine and joyful he can’t help but to feel a swell of tender affection for her. 

She is the woman he loves. Even if he’s the only one to ever know.

She turns her attention to the elders at the front of the room, who present her with the royal necklace. She repeats the ceremonial vows after them.

The entire time, her eyes never leave his.

And just like that, she is declared the Queen of Wakanda.

Their first. And with Bast’s blessing, certainly not their last.

She has to greet several diplomats first, but at long last, she makes her way over to him. 

Even with all the diplomats and important guests present, she all but tackles him in a hug. He’s overwhelmed with every detail of her -- the way she curls into his shoulder, the smell of sandalwood soap, the way she presses up against him.

She feels like _home_ , he realizes. She always has.

She pulls away and looks up at him, eyes shining, arms still latched around his neck. 

He’s never wanted to kiss her so badly. Even in a room full of strangers, the urge is so strong it’s nearly overwhelming.

He thinks better of it and presses a quick kiss to her cheek, instead.

It’s safe. Friendly.

If she looks momentarily disappointed, well, he pretends not to notice.

It’s better, really, this way.

 

 _"_ Congratulations, your majesty. On the title and the crown. _"_

He throws in a little bow, just for kicks.

Shuri rolls her eyes but humors him, anyways.

"And what, _exactly_ , would you **do** for your queen, _hmm_?"

She says it lightly enough, but her tone seems to have shifted, and with one question, it’s like she’s suddenly peering into his soul.

He swallows, throat suddenly dry for a reason he can’t explain.

 _"_ Whatever she asks of me, _"_ he replies, with a fake ease that belies his sudden inner turmoil.

His response seems to have bolstered something in her. Shuri looks at him, cautiously, as if she’s debating what she should say next.

 

"Bucky… there’s something you should know. _"_

She’s gazing up at him, wide-eyed and more vulnerable than he’s ever seen her before.

His heart drops into his stomach.

He must be going mad. She’s _not_ about to say what he fears she will. 

 _"_ Hmm? _"_ He tries to play dumb for a hot second. Like he’s not invested in whatever it is she’s about to tell him.

 

At that precise moment, a courtier interrupts them.

"Your highness," he looks between them apologetically, clearly aware that he’s intruding on something."The prince seeking an alliance wishes to have your company." 

Ah. Yes. An _alliance_. Just like that, Bucky is pushed back into reality.

There is no world where they are allowed to be together. He needs to stop dreaming.

"But I’m not finished here…" She turns to look at Bucky, to have him back her up.

 

Bucky nods at the courtier. "I was just leaving, please go ahead."

She turns towards him and looks downright _furious_. He thinks she might actually strike him.

He wouldn’t blame her if he did.

She deserves at least a few free shots for all he’s put her through these last few years.

But her facade drops. Fast.

She looks at him. Sad. Pleading.

 _"Why?_ Why do you keep _leaving_ _?_  Please, Bucky. _Stay."_

 _"_ _Shuri."_  He looks at her, pained. " _I cannot."_

Shuri looks like she’s been struck by lightning. He can see her lower lip tremble, if slight.

Oh god, how he _wishes_ he could take back what he said. 

And just like that, she backs away from him, ignoring the courtier next to them.

 She turns on her heel and disappears into the crowd, slipping away like a breeze into the night.

* * *

 

She’s still dressed in her ceremonial attire when he finds her.

The lab is her refuge. He can’t say he’s surprised.

He hears her before he sees her. When he finally enters the lab, he sees her in the corner, faced away from him, soft sobs wracking her entire body.

His gut twists violently. He made her _cry_.

He’ll never forgive himself for this.

" _Shuri._ "  He tries to sounds as non-threatening as possible.

" _Why are you crying?_ "

He sees her wipe her tears, motion hastily near a sensor so the doors of the lab lock around them.

Finally, she turns around, says one sentence, and breaks his heart.

"Don’t you _know_?"

And he does. But the thought that _he’s_ the one making her cry hurts him more than he can say.

Not just because he owes his life to her. Not for something as silly, as _shallow_ as a debt to be repaid. But because she’s a jewel, a veritable ray of sunshine, and he’s taking that from her.

He’s corrupted her since the day he met her. Stolen her happiness from her. Given her the baggage of his Winter Soldier memories, something she never needed. Something he would _never_ wish on anyone he loved.

She deserves the world. He can’t give her anything _close_ to it.

Shuri breaks the tense silence with a broken laugh. 

 _“_ You know, it’s funny. I thought I’d outgrow this. This… _whatever_ this is,” she motions at him aimlessly.

“T’Challa… he always told me that I was being a child. For a time, I really believed him. Believed I _could_ grow out of it. Not that I actually had a damn choice.”

She meet his gaze, chuckles derisively at her own words. 

“How silly of me, to believe in such things, right? As a woman of science and all that.”

She looks at him now, tears in her eyes. 

“I care for you, Bucky. More than you’ll ever know.

But I was wrong, wasn’t I? You were never mine to begin with.”

 

For once, Bucky is at a loss for what to do. What to _say_.

All he knows is, he can’t take this any longer. Can’t listen to her shame herself for something he’s been hiding from her this whole damn time.

“Shuri, I…,” He struggles to find the right words.

She turns her eyes away from him, downcast. She looks so miserable he can’t bear it.

He steps a little bit closer, slowly moves to hook his forefinger under her chin, until she’s looking at him again.

He looks at her lips for just a split second, and is reminded, like a stab to the heart, of what he so badly _wants_ but can’t have, and then back up into her eyes.

He _has_ to tell her.

 

“Shuri, I’ve always been yours. But you _can’t_ be mine.”

She blinks once, then again, eyes flashing as the realization of what he just _said_ hits her.

He watches as she intakes a shaky breath. Steps away from him.

“You _lied_ to me.”

Her eyes are bright. Brimming with righteous anger.

“You _lied_ to me! After all this time! _Why?_ ” 

“Because you deserve better than this. Because you deserve _someone_ better.”

“And just like that, you decided what was right for me?”, she snaps.

He tries not to get frustrated, tries to keep the edge out of his voice. 

“We could _never_ have been together, Shuri! You _cannot_ be in love with a white man. What would your brother have said? What would your elders have said? Hell, what would the _world_ have said?”

She looks him up and down, sets her jaw stubbornly.

“You know what? _Screw_ ‘what the world would have said’. I don’t give a _damn_ anymore.” she practically snarls at him.

She leans forward and steps into his space, breathing hard.

 

In an instant, his anger dissolves.

Her intent is clear. It’s also incredibly _dangerous_.

She leans in close, presses her forehead against his. The anger in her voice has been replaced with something else. Something raw and vulnerable.

“Tell me you _don’t_ want this. _Tell me_ , Bucky, and I’ll stop.”

 

 _“Shuri_.” He rasps her name out. It sounds like a plea and a warning.

There are nobles outside. _Someone_ will come looking. He knows it.

 And. Yet. He suddenly can’t move, can’t breathe.

 _Can’t_ tell her to stop.

 

She’s just a breath away, and then she leans forward to close the last bit of distance between them.

She just brushes against his lips — lightly, _so_ lightly -- but he feels like he's been shocked.

His mind goes blank, his heart stops, and then suddenly there's nothing but the soft sensation of her lips on his, her fingers tangling in his hair, pulling at the nape of his neck and holding him close.

It’s all so _impossibly_ gentle, and yet  -- it still steals the breath from his lungs, sets his damn veins on fire.

He _groans_ , and he’s sure she can feel him tense beneath her, feel him restraining himself.

And there’s a part of his brain that is still screaming that this is _wrong_ , so _wrong_ , but that part slips away as she knots a hand in his hair and pulls him closer, winds _tighter_ around him.

She wants to wreck him. He’s certain of it.

 

Half a second later, she damn well does.

Slowly, gently, Shuri parts her lips and delicately, _deliberately_ traces out his lower lip.

It's so innocent, really, but in that moment, it's the most painfully erotic thing he's ever encountered.

 

That does it for him. The self-control he had _somehow_ been grasping onto is finally released.

In an instant, he breaks away from her.

She looks up at him, eyes still half-lidded, completely trusting.

Like she knows he won’t hurt her.

Like she’s in _love_.

 

He pushes her forward, presses her into the wall. She lets him.

Shuri groans beneath him as she feels his hips pinning her into place, as he deepens their kiss, as his metal fingers lace with hers and pin her back.  

He lets his other arm wrap possessively around her waist, pulling her even closer to him.

Bucky quickly loses himself to the sensation of her -- the taste of her tongue and lips, the feel of her tiny frame as she presses up urgently against him, the way she moans and shifts beneath him.

 

That’s the worst part, probably. He can _feel_ her, can get a teasing feel of her body heat through the thickness of her corset.

He wishes, in that instant, that her corset were gone, that it were just her bare skin against his.

Suddenly, all he can focus on is how to _get her out_ of her stupid damn corset without tearing it off of her.

He runs his hands up and down her frame, struggling to find the zips, the openings, _anything._

Shuri mercifully spares him and removes the corset herself, freeing herself and letting it drop to the ground before she unceremoniously kicks it away.

 

She looks uncharacteristically shy, suddenly, but she quickly regains her confidence as she drinks in the way his eyes darken when he looks at her.

She smirks up at him, equal parts playful and teasing.

“Your turn.” she says, simply.

Bucky complies, tugging off his top in an instant.

He lets her take him in for another beat before he tugs her against his chest and kisses her, _hard_. This time, he bites down gently, teasingly, on her lower lip.

 

She _gasps_ his name in response, and he doesn’t think he’s ever heard a more beautiful sound.

He wants her to make that sound, again and again.

Just for him. _Only_ him.

 

Saying he hungers for her seems like an understatement. Hunger seems like the wrong word. He doesn’t think he’s ever known a hunger, a _desire_ like this.

 

He's sure by now that she can feel him against her, even through the thickness of her skirt, but he finds that he suddenly doesn't care anymore.

At last, he picks her up with an arm and carries her two steps to the opposite wall. As if by second nature, her arms wrap around his neck and her legs lock around his hips.

 

He finally lets himself feel the smooth bareness of her legs as she winds into him fully.

She rocks into him and he pants, presses himself closer still and grinds into her like he’s lost his mind.

He doesn’t know what has possessed him.

But in the moment, with her, he can't think straight and frankly, he doesn't give a _damn_.

He kisses her neck, and she sighs contentedly before he quickly kisses her again.

 

“Do you want this?” He breathes against her lips.

If she says no, he’ll stop.

 

She pulls away and meets his eyes.

“Yes,” she says simply. 

Just that -- just so.

Forceful, clear, decisive  -- as he’s always known her to be.

 

He swallows, and he swears he can feel his blood pounding and his heart racing as he rids her of the last barrier between them.

Shuri, for her part, wraps her legs more firmly around his hips before she reaches down to free him.

He lifts the full length of her skirt, steals beneath it, and presses into her painfully slowly. Her fingers curl into his back, and she gasps sharply.  

 

Bucky swears he almost loses himself right then. He moans her name out like a prayer against her lips and forces himself to not move, not to hurt her at all. He simply lets his forehead rest against hers as she takes a moment and adjusts, lets one fist curl up as he strains to hold himself back. His knuckles clench and turn white as he uses the last of his willpower to stay _still_ , even though she’s set him on fire.

She takes a few moments to adjust, but when she finally does, she haltingly moves and kisses him. Her lips are bitten and raw with the animalistic fury with which he’d kissed her, and she's slick with sweat he can taste on her now.

 _He did this to her_. A part of him twists possessively at that thought.

She sighs and murmurs his name softly against his lips, like a prayer.  

He moans into her mouth and murmurs her name back, feeling for all the world like he’s being torn in half and being reborn at the same time. 

She breathes heavily, raggedly. And then she simply moves forward, cradles his face, and rolls her hips beneath him. It's so simple and delicate, but it’s all he needs.

 

He thrusts into her cautiously. Again. Then again. And again.

She cries out again. Then again. And again.

That's enough.  

 

He barely has time to think, because what happens next is so sudden and so _urgent_ that it could have only happened by instinct. He covers her mouth and kisses her when he hears her cry out. First incredibly tenderly, then less so.

Bucky seals his mouth over hers and hungrily kisses her to cover her cries, to swallow them whole, to take in her pain and her pleasure and her love and her desire in the rawest, most _carnal_ way he knows how.

And suddenly he's moving and she's moving with him, and all he can think about is the way he pounds into her and she rocks her hips beneath him, her nails in his back, her hot breath mixing with his, their bodies pressed so _so_ close.

Then the last thing he remembers before his brain shuts down and he loses himself completely is the way he pushes her knees up and her pleasured cry in response.

* * *

 

Shuri walks through the palace halls the next morning.

She’s got Bucky’s fingerprints all over her shoulders, a quiet satisfaction in her steps.

The staff can’t figure out for the life of them why she looks so radiant. A few people close to her figure it out. 

* * *

 

And as for him? He stays.

At her side.

It is, after all, where he belongs. 

Where _they_ belong.

And frankly? He wouldn’t have it any other way.

 


End file.
